These Moments
by gustin puckerman
Summary: "Could you love me the second time around?" He doesn't know. ― Oliver deals with amnesia, and the fact he's married to Felicity and has a son together, even when his brain thinks otherwise.
1. prologue

**Author's Note**: This should be longer. But I decided against it. It should be a series, but in a set of connected one-shots. Probably.  
**Musical Inspiration**: The Wanted - Glad You Came (DSharp Violin Mix).

* * *

**prologue**

He felt awkward, standing there ― with the world, supposedly, right in front of him.

He watched her again, hands stilled and something in his stomach twisted painfully. _Don't pressure yourself, Oliver_, they said. _Amnesia_. _Nasty little thing. Surely everyone would understand_. Well, he didn't. Not at all.

Because he's looking at her again, and he couldn't remember. His index finger and thumb found the silver band which enveloped his fourth finger ― tugging on it to make sure, probably for the millionth times, that it's real and it's there, and it's not disappearing anytime soon ― and he watched her move gracefully, as if she's been doing this routine, of taking care of him, for the rest of her life, and it's completely normal, and she's so beautiful and she must be special somehow but he just - _he couldn't remember_.

He remembered Laurel ― and remembered the ache he carried with her picture tucked in his back pocket as he survived another day at the island. He remembered Tommy ― and his satisfying claps against his back whenever someone pushed them down, or kicked them out of a club. He remembered Thea ― a lot has changed, but he had been right, there wasn't a day went by without her in his mind. He remembered his mother ― strong and loving and firm.

And at long last, he remembered his father ― good, but tortured.

But he can't, for the life of him, remembered _her_. Her who had long golden curls fell behind her back like waterfall, her who stood by his bedside even if he can't pin-point who she was. Her, who he only remembered as the IT girl that helped him a couple of times before but nothing more. Her, who patiently waited until he could finally say 'hi' to her even though it was obvious to the both of them how wary he was. Her, who apparently knew about his life more than anyone else. Her, who wore the same wedding band around her finger ― his wife.

"_It's okay,_" she had told him when he apologised to her because he couldn't remember anything, tucking her hand behind his neck as they corrected his posture at the hospital. "_We'll get through this together_."

And now he's following her lead as she was discussing with his mother further about what to do with him, a young child tucked by her hip, his blue eyes staring back at him. Oliver pulled up a picture that, he assumed, was taken with a polaroid and traced his thumb over it ― they told him it was with him when the accident occurred, and he was clutching it with a death grip ― and his skin ghosted over the figure of him, beaming at the camera - all genuine and happy.

He thought that sort of... dream was no longer possible. _Being actually happy_.

It must have been New Year's because he could detect the banner behind him, on the far corner. Besides him was a grinning _her_ ― her hair was even curlier then ― and in between them was the boy. He looked happy. Cheeks rosy and he seemed to be cheering along to whatever it was that they were cheering at. He tilted his chin up at the same boy who's staring back at him, on the moment, and felt a weight dragging his heart down as he observed the frown that etched on the young boy's face.

He swallowed.

_Oh God_, he closed his eyes as a throbbing pain struck the back of his skull. _He can't even remember his own family_.


	2. minutes - burn

**Author's Note**: The cover image is credited in the profile. Everything belongs to their rightful owner(s).  
**Inspired Writing Concept(s): **_SmileySimmo_ and _GoingVintage_.

* * *

**burn**

minutes;

A moment ― a screech, a sound, a step.

A hush.

Oliver thought he remembered a sound of crying. But it was no ordinary cry. He'd just gotten glimpse of it ― but he remembered hushing those cries, those _wailing_ down, and he remembered warmth surging throughout his whole body as he held it with his arms, those worn blanket. And there were eyes, small eyes, staring back at him; no tears, just flushed cheeks and a bald head. He stopped crying.

...

They've explained everything to him as soon as they can.

Oliver remembered that night clearly. It was the night to the day he was _finally_ given the permission to see his family. It was a good reunion, he'd guessed, as far as reunions would go. His mother had been tearful, his sister was cautious ― but he had understand why. Well, for the most part of it.

Head injuries, amnesia. _Whatever_. Except it's not.

His head throbbed all the time, but he had to keep a pokerface at it because if he didn't, then the doctors would see, and if the doctors would see, they'd keep him longer in the hospital ― and frankly, after almost two months of being comatose, Oliver knew his body was practically screaming for just a simple jog in the open air. And it also didn't help with the knowledge of the silver band which existed around his finger, almost haunting his every conscious awake.

And he met Felicity.

He didn't remember anything about her, _anything_ ― except that she's the girl from the IT department who slipped a comment about his dead father, and the one that called him on his sad of an excuse, but respected him enough not to ask too many questions. That was it. But there she was, standing by the doorframe, and her cheeks looked a little sunken down to compare with the memory he had of her, and his mother was (re?)introducing her to him, the matching silver bland wrapped around her finger, and she was trying to act like this was normal, that the fact her husband hadn't remember her was everyday's routine, and she was _smiling_. For a moment, Oliver took and wondered: _how can she still be smiling?_

"Honey, this is Felicity. Felicity Smoak. Well, _Queen_ now, I would have assumed. You're married to her, and have a son together―"

"Son?" Oliver perked up.

"He's, uh," Felicity interrupted quickly, daringly taking a step inside of the ward. "He's with Raisa, at home and he's uh ― he isn't here because, well, because your mother, I mean, we _all_ think it's just..."

Moira clasped his son's hand, "We just wouldn't want you to go through a shock."

_You mean a mental breakdown in front of my own kid?_ Oliver nearly snorted, but stared at his mother anyway. He locked his jaw, closed his eyes shut because _fuck, this is a lot to take in_ but opened them up a second later and faced the seemingly foreign world. With all the mental strength he could gather, he rasped out, "Where's Laurel?"

It was an innocent question, really, in his defence, but... maybe he _should_ have thought twice about questioning that because the reaction he gets weren't what he expected. His mother looked utterly crestfallen, and Felicity was... perplexed, before she picked up on her senses and smiled again, "She's... she'll visit, soon. She's just ― busy. On the moment."

He met his son later that evening when Moira received an urgent call from the office. After an hour of trying to fit in with the whole situation of which her husband completely ignored her for the most part, Felicity went back home and came back with their... well, son. "His name's Alexander Tommy Hugh Queen. But we call him 'Hugh', because I said so." Grinned Thea, as she ushered her nephew into the ward.

Hugh Queen stayed by her mother's side ― or _knees_, for that matter ― his blue eyes searching for his, not exactly judging... It's like, he's waiting for his father to prance out of this post-comatose-amnesiac state any second now, and presume whatever it was that they were doing ― except, of course, Oliver didn't move at all. He was just staring back at this young child with the utmost curiosity he'd ever felt, while the young boy stood there, his small hands clutched on her mother's pants, fear crept slowly on his pale complexion.

Felicity ruffled a hand through Hugh's blond strands, and the boy titled his head to look up at his mother. She naturally cupped his jaw, and brushed her thumb across one eyebrow, before she smiled warmly and told, "It's okay. Go, Daddy's been waiting all day to see you."

Hugh didn't answer ― instead, his eyes fell back to his father's.

It wasn't until Thea managed to convince him that Hugh finally toppled over his feet and stumbled into Thea's arms. "He's shy," Thea told him, scrunching up her nose as she planted a kiss across Hugh's temple. "Which is weird, because I thought Daddy's your best person in the world?" The last sentence was obviously meant for the littlest Queen, and Oliver felt a sense of guilt beginning to gnaw at the pit of his stomach; _he and Hugh must have had an incredible relationship together, before_.

Felicity came up besides them, then, and brushed a hand through Hugh's hair again ― "Why don't you tell Daddy about what you did with Raisa today?"

Hugh fluttered his eyes back up to him, and only then did Oliver realised how the boy shared so much of his looks: the blond, the eyes, even the way he _stared_. But all at the same time, Oliver picked up on the Felicity's feature the young boy must have inherited ― it was crazy to think that it all managed to mash up into... into _this_. Hugh Queen.

His son.

Their visit didn't last long, and it was still awkward ― around Felicity, around his own son ― but they managed through. Hugh was a brilliant child, well, extremely brilliant for a three-year-old anyway. Even though they didn't speak much in their curt conversation, which were rare according to Thea, Oliver learned that before-accident Oliver taught little Hugh _Russian_, and Hugh practised it often with Raisa. Thea commented on how "weird that was, to teach an infant a different language" while Felicity just shrugged her shoulders simply, which caused a spark of curiosity to speck at the back of Oliver's mind.

He found out about the truth that night.

It was a quiet night ― and he'd woken up because of his... _survivor's instinct_ telling him that he wasn't alone. He wasn't. A set of fingers immediately grabbed on his wrist, and he snapped his attention to the intruder, before his eyes were met with a pair of grey-blue, very familiar gaze. "Felicity..."

The truth that were spilled that night was overwhelming as shadows by shadows began to emerge from the darker side of the ward. He was introduced to Barry Allen, who carried the name of _The Flash_ and had helped in before, in several occasions. He learned that Thea's boyfriend Roy, whom he met briefly earlier that morning, was his 'sidekick' ("I prefer the term 'best associate', thank you very much," coughed Roy when they mentioned it) and was called _Red Arrow_. He was glad to see Digg was still alive, although he now bared a scar which spread from his neckline before it disappeared into his collar. Oliver made a mental note to ask about it later. He understood somewhat how his... _relationship_ with Felicity began.

"You were bleeding. In my car. Your mother shot you." Felicity licked her dry lips, and made a 'tch' sound at the click of her tongue. "It was a long story."

He learned a few more stories about Malcolm Merlyn, and the Glades, and Tommy's death, and how Sara was alive. He momentarily wondered along those short pauses between each stories, how he's taken it the first time it hit him, whether it's worse than how he's taking it this second time around. But he took it anyway, like how he's taken Slade's punches and Shado's slashes. It wasn't easy, but he'd live by.

He'd always live by.

(It was a weird night.)

...

The doctor gave him the New Year's picture the day after, telling him that it was with him when the car hit. "One nurse almost throw it out, but since you've held onto it so dearly the moment it happened... well, I can't quite conclude that the picture wasn't that important." He traced a thumb over it, and thought for a second on the dry blood which stained the frame where it covered Felicity's glinting eyes.

"I looked happy," he dumbly noted, looking up at the doc. "_We_ looked happy."

Which was astounding to learn with all the scars and shadows he carried over his bones, under his mask ― but there he was, with a family of his own, a wife that kept his secret (and scars and shadows behind bright-colored lipsticks smiled) and a son that had the clearest blue eyes he's ever seen. The doc gave a gentle smile, and squeezed his shoulder.

Like he should've _known_ the answer to his own statement.

Oliver restrained himself from rolling his eyes backwards.

...

He saw Laurel the third day he was released from the hospital.

It was weird, the past days after he was released. He learned that he no longer lived in the Queen Mansion, instead he and Felicity bought a penthouse which overlooked the city and had a room connected to the foundry way back and hidden. The first day he was there, he just spent it easing his throbbing ache at the back of his head by sleeping through until three a.m., where he learnt he was sleeping alone on the bed, and that Felicity had to squeeze into their son's small bed and slept there.

He called up on Digg around four and he showed up at his house and they sparred for the next hour in the hidden room. His movements were slower than they liked them to be, and his accuracy was slightly off, but he picked up on his mistakes and spat out blood and worked through it again. By the time they were finished, his aching mind rose up to haunt his temples again and his muscles burned.

Talking to Digg was easier, he decided.

Maybe that's why it was so easy for him to just blurt out, "Why did I have a kid?"

He noticed a new scar over his shoulder that strapped down until under his armpits and one stab wound just close to his hipbone and felt dissatisfaction. How could he allow himself to bring a child into this world ― _into his world?_ Digg wiped a towel over his cheek and sighed heavily through his nostrils, "Because you wanted to."

Oliver squinted his eyes at that. "Did I?"

"Yes," Digg's voice was firm, and his gaze was firmer. "None of us expected Hugh. But when we found out about Felicity's pregnancy, you accepted it. That's when... you really started to rely on Roy, and Barry to do the vigilante work. And if we're lucky, Sara came along. It just... it fell into places. And when Hugh was born..." There's a smile on Digg's face when he said it, like an inside joke Oliver should have known inside out. "I mean, you wanted it. You want them. All of us."

Oliver pondered over this, tried to see it all played out in his head but decided against it when the pain ached a little too badly. Digg went home just before the sun rose, and Oliver continued the morning with a jog. He came back later on when the scent of coffee wafting through the kitchen, and a sound of "_Why do I have to wear clothes!_" coming from a smaller bedroom than his own.

He walked in into a battlefield with Felicity's tackling their three-year-old son with pants that almost fell from his hips, and the upper body without a shirt. His eyes were wide. "I'm... sorry?"

"You came back." Felicity breathed, and stood. "I'm sorry. I should― he should've been wearing clothes before you return but I just, I couldn't..." At this point, Hugh was mounting the blankets up and wrapping himself under it, murmuring inaudible words against the mattress.

"Is he okay?" was all Oliver managed, glancing at the mess.

"He'll be fine. You just..." Felicity awkwardly patted his chest, pressing her lips together. "Get a shower, and breakfast will be served."

He nodded then, spun on his shoes and walked away. He pretended that he didn't hear Hugh's muffled comment of, "_Why's Daddy's so weird?_" and turned the heat of the shower to maximum until his skin was scorching red and his lungs were clogged.

...

Anyway, like he said, he met Laurel on the third day after he was released from the hospital.

He didn't knew what he was feeling as he rang the doorbell to her new apartment, but he could describe to you the breath of life he exhaled when he saw her face behind the doors. It felt like everything finally made sense. That the world wasn't whirled in a day, and his life wasn't shaken up in front of his eyes. Laurel was everything.

"I heard about your condition," she said after they parted their hugs. "I mean, I wanted to visit you but I just got caught up and everything..."

"It's okay," he told her. "That's okay."

"Well, come in." She opened the door further.

When he stepped in, he took note of the whole new things that even for Laurel Lance was... bizarre. That was, until she said, "I have a son now. He's... adopted. It was a long boring procedure, but yeah." She gestured towards a hanging frame of a young baby grinning at the camera, his hair dark and his eyes glint with high amusement. "He's five now."

"What's his name?"

"Thomas Arthur Lance." Laurel smiled ruefully, "But we just call him 'Tom'."

_Not Tommy? _Oliver didn't chock.

"How are you?" Laurel's question was quick, _too quick_, as they stepped into the living room, with her picking up some of the toys lying on the floor and the couch. "I'm sorry it's such a mess." She threw it into a pile of other toys, "I heard you had a... head injury?"

"Amnesia," he corrected her, glancing at a new frame of Laurel holding out a smiling, who he assumed must be, Tom.

"So you don't... remember anything?"

He shook his head no, "Not anything recent, unfortunately."

"I mean...," Laurel wiped her hands over the back of her jeans, her eyes glancing anxiously. "What _do_ you remember, Ollie?"

He shrugged his shoulders, "I remember the island. I remember you being a lawyer, and hating me for what happened to... Sara. And I... The last thing I'm sure of was that, Tommy was alive."

"Well he isn't," Laurel sharply replied. "He died."

"I heard." Oliver looked at his feet as a pain beat across his chest. "I'm sorry."

"It wasn't your fault." Laurel replied and forced out a smile, before she shut her eyes and groaned. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't― _amnesia_. That's a big deal. I'm sure your family's very concern over you. How are... things?"

"Well," he pursed his lips, "So far, I'm stable. I just... can't remember, is all."

"Will... it come back ― the memories?"

Oliver looked past her head to the window outside, recalling the piece of information the doctor said to him. "They said it hit my head pretty hard. They weren't ― they weren't certain. I mean, something like... a 50/50 chance? Anything could happen."

Laurel nodded her head, licking her lips. "I guess that's true," she murmured, before glancing at her watch. "Oh, shit."

"What? What happened?"

"Tom! He..." Laurel closed her eyes and grabbed her purse, "I have to pick him up. This is the _third_ time I'm late on picking him up at school. I swear he's going to― I need to go. It's nice seeing you, Ollie, but I really, honestly need to go."

"I― I could go with you."

"No. No, you can't," Laurel scoffed, rushing past him. "I'm sure you got more important stuff to do."

"Actually... I don't. I mean, I got nothing to do. Really." Oliver insisted, following her footsteps. "Maybe after we pick up Tom, I could treat you both to lunch? I'm not rushing into anything, anyway. And I'm pretty sure I got a _lot_ to catch up on."

Laurel stared at her, squinting her eyes while humming. "... _Fine_. But Tom's a tough a crowd to please. So, don't judge."

Oliver laughed, "Scout's honour."

Laurel rolled her eyes, snorting.

(Their lunch was, more than anything, good. Tom liked him enough when Oliver ganged up with him against Laurel.)

...

On the third time he met with Laurel after he was released from the hospital, he kissed her.

It wasn't raining that day, but he thought it did in his heart, his stomach, his head. It all suddenly tightened up, and lightened up and everything was clear and blur and messed-up all at the same time, and for a moment, he thought he was sick. _Very sick_. Because he could feel the cool silver band around his finger, he could estimate the blood he washed away from the New Year's photo tucked in his wallet, he could still feel his breath caught up in his throat as Felicity's lips brushed against his jaw that morning, her bright lipstick now a faint smudge on his unshaven face; he could feel all of it ― and it _burned_.

Oliver kissed Laurel harder.

...

A moment ― a screech, a sound, a step.

That was all it took.

A kiss.

For a moment, to change everything.


End file.
